It's Five Minute Friday! Topic: In Between

http://lisajobaker.com/five-minute-friday/

In Between

I laugh because this is the very definition of me right now.  My life.  I am in between the cracks, where I am invisible to the busy passer-bys.  I am in between a life where I was social and outgoing and reaching and striving for the next big thing and a life of motherhood and barbequeing and driving kids to school.  With toddlers at home, everything feels very much "in between."  Literally and figuratively.  I find crackers shoved in between the couch cushions.  I finish sentences in between helping kids refill milk cups.  I think about what's for dinner in between diaper changes.  I am in between a life of a student and my ideas of being a career-woman to the life of a full-blown homemaker who dusts and vacuums and repeatedly wipes sticky fingerprints off of everything in between kissing away the owies and the boo-boos and teaching the alphabet.  I am in between focus.  I am searching for tranquility and a stable life where I can live in the present moment instead of being pulled between helping one kid with homework and potty training another and putting another down for a nap.  I am in between being a loving wife and a loving mother, giving both husband and children the attention they crave.  I am in between post-partum body and rockin' hot gym-going body.  I am in between thoughts, in between dimensions, in between hair styles, in between ideas about whether or not we will go camping tonight for the first time with three kids.  Always in between.  Teetering, finding which direction to go, always this way or that way, it doesn't matter, just moving forward happily.

Stop.

Here's just a couple of photos from last summer that I felt depict me "in between."  In between the clearing.  In between the life out there and the life in here.

 

 

 

Coming soon....

Check back every Friday for something called "5-Minute-Friday" - for more details, check out lisajobaker.com/five-minute-friday

Tomorrow will be my first time participating, and hopefully I can figure out how to post it because I have never used twitter and am still not quite sure what it is.  I am very technologically challenged.  It seems I missed the technology era by about 3-4 years and, of all the classes I took in college, not one of them had to do with computers. :)

You should try this "5-Minute-Friday" out, too!  It sounds fun.......

I continue to find inspiration in strong women all around me.  Today, I found that inspiration through a woman I have never met, who happens to live in my neck of the woods.  Lisa Jo.  As I read an article she submitted on motherhood, I realized we had a lot in common already.  And then I realized once again the connection you can feel with someone just through their writing.  Then I read an article she wrote on the importance of writing, and realized we share a common interest.  Writing is such an incredible tool of communication.  Sometimes I miss the letters my friends and I would write to one another, because I feel it was the letters that connected us most.  I love to write.  I don't always write well.  Most of the time when I am writing, it is broken up by constant interruptions (like right now as my little girl calls out that she went potty and my son hollers out to me to come look at his fort and then to come over because he wants to show me in the anatomy book where the heart is).  And most of the time when I am writing, it is with a toddler climbing all over me and trying to pound on the computer keys or steal my pen as my six-year-old asks me questions or urges me to stop because it has been the "two minutes" that I promised it would take me to finish my thought.  And then I'm so scatter-brained with all of this going on that I wonder if anyone can even comprehend what I'm trying to say. 

So, if you can figure out what I'm saying, or even if you have no idea what I'm saying, try it out.  Spend five minutes every Friday writing with me.

Every Friday, possibly at midnight when I can be alone, I will be participating in this "Five-Minute-Friday" where I follow the given prompt on Lisa Jo's web page and just write for five minutes.  No editing, no proofing, no second-guessing.  Just writing and submitting.

I read this essay, "On Why You Need to Keep on Writing" on her web page and loved it.  These are all of her words, not mine.  I decided that she said it so well, that I would just copy the entire passage and paste it here to share.  Maybe this will encourage you to write.  Here's an excerpt:

Words are a road map for those who come behind.

To write is to give. To be flat out, all out generous with your story. To wrap up your words, your life, your failings, your most miserable moments and your wild and wonderful discoveries and give them to somebody else. To share them with someone, to encourage someone, to re-gift what have been the hardest parts of your story in ways that make other people feel they are not alone.

To write is to pour out your life as a love offering for people you may never meet, because when you do so you feel God’s pleasure in your fingertips.

And maybe you were made for this time and these keyboard letters to leave a legacy. Maybe you were made to connect a family. Maybe you were made to tell the story of someone who can’t. Maybe what you whisper over your kids at night or dream in the dark hours, or doodle in your head while waiting in the car pool line is essential to somebody else.

Maybe when you write it down you will discover not only your own pleasure, but the pleasure of the God who gives you the words, the prompting and the message.

Run with it, my friend. Forget the doubts and the reasons why you think you can’t. Don’t look back – run with abandon like you used to when you were just six and discovering the joy of your own strength.

Run like you used to when you believed you could fly.

- See more at: http://lisajobaker.com/2012/02/on-why-you-need-to-keep-on-writing-especially-when-you-dont-have-time/#sthash.wBMRWkbx.dpuf

Strong!

First of all, I would like to apologize to anyone who actually reads my blog!  This blog was originally set up to be mostly about my kids and my family life, things we were up to, vacations we were taking, where we were moving next, and so on.  Instead, this blog has been more like a personal journal.  As it turns out, it's sort of my time away from all of that "mom" stuff.  If there is a moment in my day where I just need a break, I let it all out on this blog.  If there is a night where I can't sleep because I have too much on my mind or Jordan is working late at the hospital, I pour out my soul on this blog.  Not that I blog that often.  But, when I do, it's my personal release.  I took a "writing personal histories" class last year, so I did most of that journaling in an actual journal or through my writing assignments, hence the lack of entries for the past year.  Now, I'm back to putting it all out there in this blog.  Blog, blog, blog (blah, blah, blah).

Back to the actual post....  STRONG!  That's the title of today's entry.  I dragged my tired bones out of bed this morning after a sleepless night.  I stumbled into the baby's room and changed his diaper, discarded the diaper outside, and washed my hands.  Then I stumbled around the kitchen preparing breakfast for three kids.  They always want different things.  And I oblige them because I'm just happy to see them eat!  After making cereal with strawberries on top, oatmeal with strawberries on the side, and oatmeal with sprinkles on top and strawberry jam swirled in, and topping off all the milks, I sat down to eat my own breakfast.  I looked at the clock.  One hour until intervals class and body pump.  Blah.  I didn't have it in me.  I sluggishly ate my granola and helped my kids with their endless requests in between bites.  I decided that staying home from the gym this morning would not be any less exhausting.  The kids would still make my morning incessantly busy - constant requests for food or entertainment, constant fighting, constant messes.  Yes, it would be far better to get out, let them play with their friends in childminding for an hour and a half, and I could have a "break."

After cleaning up breakfast messes, getting all three kids dressed and teeth brushed and hair done, then hurrying in to brush my teeth and throw my hair up in a ponytail, I realized that I was already running late.  Maybe I'd just do some light cardio on the elliptical machine today....  I got all the kids' shoes on, grabbed up the diaper bag, a water bottle, and my keys, and then made the long journey from my front porch to the car.  It is about 10 feet.  Yet, with three kids, it takes F-O-R-E-V-E-R.  They want to stop and pick a flower, then they see a bug, then they want to run over to the neighbor's yard, then they realize they forgot something in the house, then there's the tears, then I'm getting them all to the car and trying to get all three of them to sit down so they can get buckled in their seats.  The oldest two do great.  They climb in and get buckled.  I wrestle with my toddler to get him to actually sit so I can buckle him.  It's like trying to wrestle a cat into a bucket of water.  I feel defeated.  I wait until he's ready.  I try again.  I bribe him with a book to hold, a suddenly-fascinating toy to play with, anything that will get him to sit down so I can strap him in!  Done.  By this point, I have already completely missed the intervals class.  If I hurry, I can still make it to body pump.  If I have it in me.

The drive to the gym is a short five minute zip through the neighborhood, thank goodness!  We get into the parking lot and find a spot near the stairs.  Walking my kids through a parking lot is like herding cats.  All three of them want to wander in three different directions.  So, I get them all lined up, hold the youngest, and we venture from the parking lot, up the stairs.... as one kid wanders down some mysterious steps to a utility room and another kid wanders over to the flower garden and my youngest is fighting with all his might to get out of my arms... so back down the stairs, round up the kids, back up the stairs.  Finally into the building.

Then we have to get down the hallway.  Oh boy.  They want to stop and touch everything and look at everything.  Then we get to the front desk where I try to get all three to hold still and patiently wait in line in one spot without wandering off.  Unfortunately there is usually a long line in the mid-morning because of all the tennis camps going on.  We finally make our way to the front, I'm only missing one kid, and I get signed in.  I grab a towel, have one kid in a barrel hold on one side as I grip another kid's hand and go calling for the missing kid.  I find missing kid. We proceed to steps to go downstairs.  They are freshly mopped.  I try to hold hands, they resist and want to do it themselves.  My oldest runs down the stairs, no problem.  My three year old cautiously steps down the stairs, taking about 30 seconds per step.  We have about 20 to go.  I ask if I can carry her.  "No!  I'll do it myself, Mommy!"  So, I wait.  The youngest is getting restless and is squirming out of my arms.  I have no idea where my oldest has disappeared to.  Still waiting.....  Finally we get to the bottom of the stairs.

We have to pass a drinking fountain before we turn the corner to childminding.  This is the next challenge.  My oldest is already at the drinking fountain, guzzling down water... or at least getting it all down his shirt, and making a big deal about how refreshing it is, so that his sister cannot resist it.  So, we have to stop.  I'm already carrying a toddler, a diaper bag, a water bottle, and a towel, but, sure, why not lift up my three-year-old for five minutes while she, too, gets a nice long bath in the drinking fountain.  Done!  We turn the corner, hustle all the kids into the room and shut the door behind me.  Success!  We made it!  I get all the shoes off, hang up the diaper bag, and then one of the childminding teachers comes over and politely asks if I would like to change my reservation time to 10:00 instead of 9:00 each day because it's pretty clear that it's impossible for me to make it to the gym on time.  I smile at her and wonder if she has ANY idea what I had just been through to get there.  I laugh and tell her that we'd try to stick with 9:00 and if it doesn't seem to be working out after this week, then I'd change it.

I walk into the workout area of the gym and see everyone getting set up for body pump.  I don't know.... I feel like I just got a world class workout just getting there.....  Maybe I'd just sit on the bike and read a magazine.  I started to walk on the treadmill while I decided.  I watched as the class set up their benches and got out their bars with their weights.  I noticed my towel draped around my neck at that point.  I had only grabbed it because I had planned on really sweating today.  I never sweat.  It's one of my "super powers."  I can do an intense 60 minute cardio class and barely work up a glisten.  But, I really wanted to sweat today.  I wanted to kick my own ass.  So, it was decided.  Body pump.

I have NEVER lifted weights before.  You know, other than little hand held weights for toning, or using the occasional machine in the weight-lifting area.  But I have never really "lifted weights" before.  I have done all sorts of cardio and yoga and pilates, but no weights.  I decided that would be my challenge this summer.  I'm now in my 30s and need to focus on maintaining bone mass and building muscle while I can.  I'm in my prime!  I want to feel like it!  Besides, my scrawny little arms could use a little muscle.  I did body pump for the first time last Friday and I spent the weekend hobbling around with sore muscles.  It was awesome!  So, today, I was going to really work it.  I upped my weights a little, entered the class area, and took my spot.

Holy burn!  Ten minutes into class, as we were doing all sorts of dead lifts and squats and whatever else all those things are called, I felt something wet trickling down my arms.  What in the ........  sweat!  I was so excited!  Ten mintues into my workout and I was actually dripping sweat!  I could have danced for joy right there, I was so thrilled.  I had a huge smile on my face and I kept going.  Feel the burn!  Yeah!  It was so fun!  About 50 minutes into the workout, I think the smile turned more into a painful grimace as my muscles shook and I struggled to lift the bar as quickly as the instructor.  Biceps are clearly my weak point.  Poor little biceps, they just didn't stand a chance.  I was gritting my teeth by the end of that segment and wishing for an ab workout.  Anything else!  Please!  My tiny muscles can't take any more!  After holding plank for what seemed like a thousand minutes, and then doing countless variations of plank, with my poor little arms shaking, I felt sweat dripping down my neck and my face and my arms.  It was incredible.  I have never sweat from using my muscles before!  I felt so strong!  But, phew, class was finally over and I was just so happy I survived all 60 minutes.  I put away all of my gear, called out to the instructor, "see you Friday!" and trotted along my merry way to go get my kids.

After all of that, I felt like Wonder Woman.  No body could stop me.  No body could bring me down.  Not even the bad news in childminding about my oldest misbehaving today.  I stood tall and proud like a super hero!  Taaaa-daaaaa!  Okay, well, not quite.  I stood there and discussed it all like a grownup.  But, on the inside I felt like a super hero!  Oh my goodness, I felt incredible!  My muscles are certainly fatigued even as I type this.  Poor biceps, all this typing is so hard on you...  But, wow, I feel so empowered!  I love exercise!  Why did I even consider not doing this today?

I am surrounded by strong, empowered/empowering women.  Women who run, women who play soccer, women who teach an entire classroom full of kids, women who surf, women who hike mountains... To all of the women out there who have always inspired me, thank you.  To the old lady I met in my first yoga class, thank you.  To the middle-aged woman I met while I worked at a sports store who told me all about her adventure races all over the globe, thank you.  To all women out there who find something that they can challenge themselves with and take on the world, thank you!  It is such a marvelous feeling to let go of anything that is holding you back and break down all of those barriers.  Be free.  Be strong!  Time to go dust off my invisible jet now....  Ta ta.

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Peace.... Be still.

I used to love love love yoga.  I still do, I think, but find it hard to find any peaceful moments to myself to actually do a full session of yoga.  I got started doing yoga when I was in college, living in Utah.  I stumbled across a Power Yoga class by accident, stayed to participate, and fell in love with how challenging it was.  I was surprised by how difficult it was to hold the poses in the beginning.  I would be sweating just to hold a simple chair pose or a twist.  I had always considered myself to be "in shape" but I had found my new challenge.  What really sold me, though, was watching the elderly lady next to me master each pose with absolute ease.  She was strong, flexible, and absolutely still as she mastered her poses gracefully and effortlessly, as I fumbled clumsily and my muscles shook.  After class I spoke with her about yoga and she was absolutely glowing.  She looked young and vibrant.  I was surprised when she told me her age (I forget now, but 60 or 70-something).  She just looked so youthful and graceful and radiant.  And she was happy and peaceful.  I wanted THAT.  All of it.  She embodied everything that I wanted to acheive, so I set to work with my yoga.  I started to go quite often.  Then I also signed up for Power Yoga as part of my class schedule at school.  It didn't take long for me to find that it wasn't about strength and power and pushing through movements.  It was about finding the proper positioning and alignment and syncing it with the breath and finding the energy and power from within my very core.  When I found that place - that place of ease - I suddenly felt like I was floating through each pose.  I was working, sure, but without all the opposing force.  I had learned to find that meditative place within myself that allowed me to be in tune with every aspect of my movement and stability.  It was, quite simply, a beautiful thing.  My very favorite was the sivasana (dead man's pose) at the end.  After an hour or hour and a half of intense breathing and postures, you just lie there, still, peaceful, letting yourself just be.  Everything relaxes, even your mind, during the sivasana.  It's a very tranquil moment.

I used yoga during my pregnancy to prepare for labor and delivery.  I had not read anything about birthing breathing or hypnobirthing or anything of the sort.  But, I practiced yoga regularly and continued to sync my breath with my body.  When I went into labor, I used yoga breathing rather than any of the methods the nurses would throw at me to breathe through the contractions.  I was calm and peaceful and actually fell into a sort of trance at one point.  I felt like I had fallen asleep, just for a moment, during active labor!  This was before the epidural, when I was dilated to an 8.  It was incredible.  I probably could have had a natural birth that way - I felt like I was handling my first labor and delivery like a champ - it was one of the most peaceful experiences of my life.  But, I was just a little bit (okay, very much!) terrified of that time when the baby is actually supposed to, you know, come out!  I buckled and got the epidural before it was too late.  No regrets.  (By my third baby, I did have a natural delivery, but more out of circumstance than choice.  You can read that story somewhere below in September 2011.)

After my first baby was born, I continued to do yoga with him by my side or even in my arms.  He would lie down next to me as I mastered yoga poses, and when he learned to tummy crawl, he would crawl on over and participate in the poses.  I have some great photos of us doing yoga together that I need to find.  I even started to teach a free Mom & Baby yoga class a couple times a week at my church.  I didn't have a gym pass.  My exercise was taking walks with the baby and doing yoga.  I felt great!


Somewhere along the line, I lost it.  We moved, life got busier and crazier with an active toddler running the show, Jordan was gone a lot with medical rotations and military stuff, then we had another baby, moved again for Residency, had yet another baby, and life just started to spin faster and faster out of my control.  I finally joined a gym about a year ago, but quickly got sucked into various classes such as dance and spin and interval training.  I forgot about yoga.  I started to kind of hate yoga.  I pulled out one of my old yoga DVDs one night and was annoyed by how foreign it felt to me.  The strange breathing.  The funky poses.  I couldn't believe how much my mind and body had forgotten of something that I had once sworn by!  What had changed anyhow?  Why did I used to love this stuff?  I wanted to teach this?!  Had I really changed so much over the years?

I tried a yoga class last night at my gym, now that dance rehearsals are over for the summer break.  I tried really hard to like it.  The poses the instructor presented were really easy, actually.  But, I kept forgetting to breathe.  And I was too caught up in my thoughts.  And I just wasn't present.  I was somewhere else.  I was stressed.  I was mad.  I didn't like the solitude.  I wanted to move.  I wanted to run.  I couldn't relax during sivasana.  I didn't feel myself melting and relaxing, I felt myself tensing up and watching the clock.  By the time the instructor chimed her annoying little bells, I wanted to bolt out of there!  I sat up, uneasy, and went through the cheesy chanting and said my namastes to the class around me and quickly started to pack up my yoga mat.  I felt very uneasy.  The instructor approached me and inquired about my past experience.  I don't know why, but I just felt so agitated.  Not by her, just by being stuck in this quiet, dark, calm room.  I politely answered her questions and told her I used to do yoga a very long time ago and hoped to get into it again some day.  I walked out of there and felt like I needed to gasp for air.  Why was I feeling panic in there rather than relaxation?!  Why can't I just BE STILL?!

Today, as I contemplated that question, I realized it's the very thing I'm trying to work on outside of yoga.  Being present.  Relaxing and being okay with it.  A song entered my mind today, one that we sing in church:  Peace, Be still.  It is so hard for me to do that.  To feel peace.  To be still.  This seems to be a common theme for my posts in the past month, actually.  When I was looking for the lyrics to that church song, I came across this song, which touches the sailor in my soul.  I always joke with Jordan that I was meant to be a sailor.  I have a deep passion for boats, the sea, and predicting weather.  And I love a great drunken sailor song!  Here's the hymn I found.  It seems to be sung in a very southern Baptist style, but the words are very poetic and deserve some recognition for their beautiful meaning:

Master, the tempest is raging
The billows are tossing high
The sky is o'ershadowed with blackness
No shelter or help is nigh
Carest thou not that we perish?
How canst thou lie asleep
When each moment so madly is threatning
A grave in the angry deep?

The winds and the waves shall obey thy will
Peace, be still
Peace, be still
Peace, be still
Peace, be still
Whether the wrath of the storm-tossed sea
Or demons, or men, or whatever it be
No water can swallow the ship where lies
The Master of ocean and earth and sky
They all shall sweetly obey thy will
Peace, peace, be still

Okay, so back to the yoga topic.  The difference between THEN and NOW is simple:  it's the "discipline" aspect of yoga that I have lost.  When I was starting out yoga, I was a stressed-out, beyond-busy college student.  But, I used yoga as my time to step away from everything and meditate and focus on the task at hand and just breathe through the poses and JUST BE.  Now, I have lost that ability for the time being.  I am a stressed-out, beyond-busy mother of three, running a household almost entirely on my own while supporting a busy surgical resident husband.  I have a very difficult time letting go, stepping away from it all, breathing, meditating, disciplining my mind to focus and be present.  So, yeah, I really hate yoga right now because it is really hard for me.  But, I also recognize that I need it now more than ever.  I need to learn to let go, focus, and breathe.  I need to re-teach myself to be present.  I know I'll love it again if I could just do that.  And I recognize that it is so good for me all around because it teaches me to follow those same principles in my daily life - and who doesn't want to live in the present when life is just so good?!  I want to cherish every moment I have with my kids.  I want to live in the moment as we have all of these wonderful adventures together.  Lately I'm just so consumed with other things.  I want to love yoga again.  I want to learn to let go.  Let go of my current stress.  Let go of the past pain.  Let go of things that inhibit me and keep me from living life to the fullest.  I want to let go.  Breathe.  Just be.

I think I'll stick with Power Yoga and Ashtanga Yoga, though, because some of that other stuff is really funky.  I'm really not into the new-age imagery and chanting.  I participated in Sivinanda Yoga last night.  I feel so phony chanting the Ommmmm..... and then mumbling out whatever jibberish comes next.  I'm sure it has some beautiful meaning and significance, but it's just not me and I hate doing it.  I also don't like it when the instructor tries to impart wisdom and affirmations in an overly soothing voice during the sivasana.  I'm not looking for a guru.  I'm looking for a workout that allows me to train my body and mind simultaneously.  I can be my own guru.  If I need advice on finding the light or whatever they're talking about, I'll talk to someone I know and look up to, or read a book, read the scriptures.  I don't need some new age guru rattling off yoda-style bits of wisdom.  It's so annoying.  Right?  That's why I like the athletic styles of yoga (such as Power, Vinyasa, and Ashtanga)  mixed with the basic principles of the yoga discipline (breath, alignment, finding your center, finding your energy, focusing your mind, living in the present, appreciating your body, etc).  Anyhow, I'll stop ranting about Yoga.  I'm just journaling what is in my head because for years I thought I would become a yoga instructor.  Recently I have been exploring what it will take to open my own fitness studio where I can teach dance and aerobics and, yes, even yoga.  But I'm going through a sort of funky season of life where everything is just utter chaos.  Which makes me think maybe I need yoga now more than ever.  ????

At a stand still... in contemplation...

For the first time in a very long time, I am NOT in "constant motion."  I finished my big dance performance on Saturday and have the summer off from dance rehearsals while Elena is in Russia.  My house is (fairly) spotless right now.  I'm overcoming a nasty case of bronchitis so I'm feeling fatigued and unmotivated to start any new projects.  My baby is taking a nap, my toddler is working on homework while watching a cartoon, and my oldest is still riding his bus home from school.  So, I am in a predicament of sorts.  Do I allow myself to rest and "take it easy," or do I push forward with the next challenge?  A normal person might say, "Rest!"  But, if you know me at all, you know what a painful decision it is for me to actually choose to "rest" because I sit there uneasy and wish I had just chosen to fill up my time.  This is something I want to work on.  I want to learn to sit and be content.  To sit in my thoughts.  To relax my body.  To breathe.  To just be.

Instead, moments like these make me feel very uptight and uneasy.  I sit upright on the edge of my seat, wide-eyed, anxious, taking short breaths, eyes darting around the room like a mental patient, looking for something to do.  Oh, there's a dish.  I'll wash it.  Oh, there's a pile of papers.  I'll organize those and pay some bills.  Oh, look, an alumni letter from BYU.  Maybe I'll take a class... in Arabic.  Believe it or not, I do not suffer from ADHD (although some might argue differently).  This is just a very bad habit I have formed over the years of never sitting still.  It comes with the job of being a mom, too.  I am always working.  I feel like Marge Simpson in that episode where the family moves for Homer's great new job (until he realizes he's working for an evil mastermind) and Marge's house is self-cleaning so she's just anxious and unhappy.  It KILLS me to sit still.  It is agonizing!  When I am sick, I stay busy cleaning my house so I don't have to think about how sick I feel.  When my heart is hurting, I stay busy with everything I can think of so I don't have to think about how I feel.  I am always finding new hobbies, new challenges, new things to learn and study and do.

So, this is my challenge - to just sit.  Relax my shoulders.  Sink into my chair a little deeper.  Rest my head.  Breathe in.  Breathe out.  Relax.  Be okay with it.  Relax.

That's NOT going to happen right this second, but I'll work on it.  I promise.

In other news, to keep my fingers click-clacking happily, Saturday's dance performance went really well.

I had been trying to get through a nasty respiratory illness all week and tried every home remedy I could think of leading up to the show.  Finally, I just prayed that I would be able to breathe and make it through the show, giving it my best.  I arrived at the theater at 4:45 with all of my costumes and was led to my very fancy dressing room.  I felt like a true star - I even had a fancy mirror with those fancy lights on the sides and a nice chair to sit in while I did my makeup.  Much nicer than when we performed at the Russian Embassy (where we were all squeezed into a dressing room with no mirrors and there were surveillance cameras in each corner which was a little unnerving while changing into different costumes...)  We blocked out the different dances on the stage and then prepared for the show.

I got dressed into my Greek costume, did up my hair, covered my face in stage makeup (my least favorite aspect of the whole thing is the terrible makeup!), and was rushed out of my room by one of the assistants and led to the stage.  I could hear the crowd beyond the curtain still filing in to find their seats.  Everything was still bustling and noisy and frantic around us.  The stage crew was making final adjustments.  Suddenly, everything went dark.  Everything went still and quiet.  I took my spot and got into position.  I was trying to stand still, but I felt like I was wavering in my place as I stood there waiting.  It was a very cool moment of anticipation.  The curtains opened, the spotlights came on and offered a faint glow across the stage, and the music began.  And, suddenly, alongside my fellow dancers, I was a performer.  I danced, I leaped, I twirled, I smiled.  I finished.  I didn't fall on my face!  The crowd cheered.  I bowed.  It was marvelous!

I did that through 8 more dances.  I stomped and clacked spoons through a Russian folk dance (the crowd loved that one!).  I gracefully glided and arabesqued through a lyrical ballet set to The Beatles' Yesterday.  Then, I waltzed in  huge ballgown.  I hopped in flapper-girl style doing the Charleston. I became exotic with my Indian attire and intricate finger and eye movements and sharp angles of my arms and legs in Bollywood.  I did an Arctic Nomad interpretive dance in a big furry costume (the boots kept falling down past my ballet shoes which was quite distracting because I was afraid I was going to trip.  Terrible!)  And, finally, I did the Ukrainian.  The show-stealer.  Right towards the end, we do a rigorous line comparable to Irish Step Dancing (like River Dance) but with Ukrainian flair and while wearing two-inch heels.  This is the dance that caused me to sprain my ankle during rehearsals about five weeks ago.  It's hard.  And it's a workout.  My heart was pounding and I couldn't breathe, and we were right at that moment before my solo.  !!!!!  Ahhh!  I thought I was going to drop over from exhaustion.  But I had made it this far!  I had to do this.....

I gave myself a split-second pep talk. "Push through... keep going!"  I smiled and leapt out front and center.

For my solo I had to go from my place in the line and forcefully (but "gracefully," "effortlessly") leap in one direction and land in a pique (almost like an Echappe, Pique, but with a more forceful leap and more distinct pique, which is why I have just broken it down as such), then I leap back in the other direction, pique, then pirouette a few times and jump right back into the leap.  It goes something like this:  Leap right... Pique left!  Leap left ... Pique right!  Pirouette, Pirouette, Pirouette.... Leap right... Pique left!  Leap left... Pique right!..... Pirouette, Pirouette, Pirouette!  Oh, yeah, and SMILE!  After three of those, I gracefully pranced just far enough off stage so that the audience couldn't see me fold over in exhaustion.  I had five seconds or so to recover before I had to prance back out for more leaps and jumps and kicks.  Whoever says dancers are not athletes has never danced like this before... and this is easy compared to what ballerinas do!  We had reached the finale and had to push strong.  It was invigorating.  The lights were spinning around me as I twirled around.  I got through my final turns, threw my hands up in the air, smiled, and was done!

The crowd was in an uproar of cheers, there was clapping and whistling, and all of us dancers bowing and flowers started coming up from every direction (I'm not sure if this is standard dance tradition but it is the first time I have experienced this).  My favorite moment in this moment of "fame" was seeing my husband and son arrive at the stage with flowers.  After all, when I was dancing, it was for them, not everyone else.  They handed me the flowers and the crowd cheered.  I blew my sweet boy a kiss and felt like crying.  It was over.  All the hard work, the intensity of rehearsals, the stress and the sleepless nights going over dance steps in my head, the daily dance injuries and muscle aches and pains, Elena screaming at us to work harder and be sharper, it was all over... it was suddenly done.  I have never ran a marathon, but I imagine that when people complete a marathon they have similar feelings of relief mixed with satisfaction.  Mixed feelings of being so glad it's over and vowing to never do it again, yet thinking, "Maybe just one more time...."  The curtains closed and we all ran back to our dressing rooms quickly before doing a meet-and-greet with the crowd in the lobby.  I was so touched when an old Russian lady made her way through the crowd and grabbed my arm and told me, "Thank you for the dance... It was inspiring!"  Another lady, who I learned used to dance with the company, approached me and gave me stern advice to not lose any more weight, and she started going off about the stress of being a dancer and how I needed to be careful.  I smiled and graciously accepted her advice, agreeing with her.  I didn't think I was too skinny, but she apparently was on a mission and I wasn't going to stop her from offering good advice since many dancers do indeed have eating disorders.  Not me - I love food.  I should have directed her towards the young ballerinas :)

Finally I got to a point where I could slip away unnoticed and quickly changed into my warmup clothes, wiped away the red lipstick, guzzled down an entire bottle of water, and packed my bag.  I was tired.  There was an after-party at the director's house, but it was going to consist of constantly-flowing vodka and inappropriate jokes.  At the last party, one of the dancers showed me her new boob job, another started crying to me about how sad the politics of Russia had become, most everyone was raucous and loud, and the party tends to last until the wee hours of the morning.  I was looking forward to a nice evening with my husband and son.  I slipped out quietly, met my husband and son incognito, and we drove to a quiet Thai restaurant.  We ordered our favorite dishes and I relished in my time alone with them.  If it weren't so late in the evening, my youngest two could have been there as well.  I was just looking across the table at them - at my handsome husband and my good-looking boy and felt so grateful to have the support of my loving family.  That's all I need.  My loving family.  That is what I always wished for.

So, now I'm like Clorinda the Cow.  That's a children's book about a cow who loves to dance and she tries to make it big in NYC but lands on her dancing partner during her performance.  Still, the crowd cheers because she gave it her best shot.  She goes back to her hometown and becomes a dance teacher in the barn so she can teach all of the animals about the joys of dancing.  I am now a dancer, even if I'm not the "best" dancer in the world.  Some day I will open my dance and fitness studio.  It will probably be mostly yoga classes and jazzercise-style fitness classes, but I would love to teach some beginning dance classes to children and adults and maybe even hire some better dancers to teach ballroom dance and more advanced classes.  This is my current dream.  I talk about my "studio" all the time.  Jordan is all for it.  We're just waiting for the right time.  Right now we're still moving a lot (we move again in a year) and our children are young.  So, it's in the "five-year plan."

Until then... In the word's of the great Tom Petty:

It's time to move on, time to get going,
What lies ahead, I have no way of knowing,
But under my feet, baby, grass is growing,
It's time to move on, it's time to get going....

The Final Countdown!

In 1 day, 6 hours, and 11 minutes, I will be on stage performing in Washington D.C. Am I nervous?  Ummmmm..... yes.

Homemaker Pride

In October of last year, I proudly experimented with a recipe to make my own laundry detergent.  I had been spending around $30 per month on laundry detergent and stain spray, and my laundry room was filling up with empty bottles of detergent that I would guiltily throw into recycling.  Doing 8-12 loads of laundry each week, I felt like I was going through way too many bottles and was not only concerned about the amount of waste I was creating but in the money that I was spending just to wash our clothes.  But, what's a lady to do?  Then, a friend shared a blog page telling how to make homemade laundry detergent and she raved about how clean her clothes got.  I was skeptical.  I am very good to my clothes.  I treat every stain, I follow the care label perfectly, I hang dry anything I'm afraid will shrink or pill or get ruined in the dryer.  I am determined to make my clothes last (mostly out of necessity since we have been poor students for a very long time) and to be able to pass down my kids' clothes stain-free.  So, I was hesitant to subject my clothes to "cheap" detergent.  I decided I would go out and spend the $20 on the ingredients and could just use it on my towels and sheets if nothing else. 

I got home with my slew of soaps and powders and got to work.  It only took me about 15 minutes to make and I was really proud of myself for MAKING laundry detergent and also loved the way my house smelled.  Then, I put it to the test.  I was amazed - and that is not an overstatement - at how clean my towels got using just 1 Tablespoon of my homemade detergent.  I decided to try it out on my other clothes.  1 Tablespoon of this MAGIC detergent cleaned an entire HE Washer Load of dirty kid clothes - stains and all!  I felt a little bit of pride in this new discovery.  Not only had I MADE it myself, but I would be able to save our family nearly $30 per month just to do something as simple as switching over to the homemade stuff and, bonus!, no more empty bottles of detergent laying around making me feel guilty about adding to the waste problem.  And, might I add, it is truly great for a family with sensitive skin.  My kids and I all have eczema and this is the first detergent I have used that doesn't irritate our skin.  I felt like a true hippie homemaker!  So, after using this miraculous detergent for 8 straight months, on clothes as well as carpet stains, I finally ran out of the stuff.  And I instantly went out to buy more ingredients because I am sold.  I won't buy the store brands anymore. 

Homemade Laundry Soap!!

I do A LOT of laundry.  Dirty, dirty laundry.  My kids are filthy!  They can't eat anything without getting it all over themselves.  And, if it's red and goopy, they make sure to smear it all over the place!  My son comes home from school each day covered in food, mud, and grass stains.  Jordan comes home from soccer covered in dirt and sweat.  This fancy, inexpensive homemade stuff costs merely $2.50 per month to do roughly 40 loads of laundry.  Tide costs almost 10 times that much and leaves a residue/buildup on my clothes.  So, because I'm so sold on this, and it has given me so much pride in being a budget savvy and earth-friendly homemaker, I decided to share it with anyone who wants to try. 

Tip:  Don't overuse it.  You will be skeptical and wonder if 1 Tablespoon will really clean an entire load of laundry, but it does.  It's  a m a z i n g !!!

Here is what you need:

(I used this picture from the blog I got the recipe from)

1 4 lb 12 oz box Borax (2.15 kg or 76 oz) found in the detergent isle

1 4 lb box Arm & Hammer Baking Soda (1.81 kg) found in the cooking isle
1  box Arm & Hammer Super Washing Soda 55 oz (3 lb 7 oz) found in the detergent isle
3 bars of Fels-Naptha soap, found in the detergent isle (if you use Zote bars use 2 bars instead, Zote can be found at Home Depot) or you can use Ivory soap (the basic, unscented with no lotions)

1 large tub of oxyclean or 2 small containers of oxyclean (I bought the sensitive skin variation)

Mix the powders together into any large, lined container (I use an 8 gallon trash bin lined with a garbage bag), then finely grate the bar soap into the mix.  I use one of those 4-sided cheese graters on the side that is meant for grating parmesan.  Don't worry - it washes off of the grater entirely... I mean, it's soap!  Distribute thoroughly. Put the mixture into any sealed container... a cute cookie jar with a sealed lid, a sealable rubbermaid storage container, leftover oxyclean tubs, one of those huge ice cream gallon tubs, anything!  Then, keep a Tablespoon size scoop or spoon nearby the ensure you don't overuse your fabulous new detergent.  You'll love how efficient this stuff is!

**Use 1-2 Tablespoons per load. I know that does not seem like enough but this recipe does not have fillers like the store bought detergent so you only need 1-2 Tablespoons.** 

Today I thought about this particular clip and started laughing, especially the part at 3:05 where she yells at him to keep running after he calls her a crazy bitch.... This is more like who I am now...check it out :)

Third Eye Blind - Wounded

"That's just my battle scar."

After Monday's experience and finally opening up and posting the details of my past, I have been contemplative and my first thought was that it is time to cut the past loose once and for all, starting by deleting that post and never speaking of any of it ever, ever again.  I have hated remembering those parts of my past.  HATED it!  I have always been afraid that pain would consume me.  I always try to avoid thinking about those things, or seeing or hearing anything that will remind me of them.  But, I can't just abandon my younger self from my past.  That's what caused half of the pain in the first place, was feeling so abandoned and alone.  I always wished for someone else to save me.  I learned that I need to save myself, with the strength that my Heavenly Father has blessed me with.  I realized that I need to nurture my self rather than sever all ties with my past self.  I need to embrace my young 20-year-old self and say, "Hey, you're not alone, you know... Be proud that you survived that battle!  Hold your head high!  And look how strong you are now!"  In the word's of a Third Eye Blind song:  Show up, wounded.  Rock on... on and on.

So, I choose to embrace who I was then as well as who I am now, rather than delete my post and delete my past.  So, that was a really hard time for me.  It was really hard for me to type it all out and drudge up all of those painful memories that I have always run from.  It was hard for me to let it out there into the universe for people I know to see it and read it and judge however they might judge.  To let people see a very real and very raw part of my life.  But, if I just cut the past loose, that's like telling myself that I want nothing to do with that girl who got attacked and who had to deal with it by herself.  It's like telling myself that I didn't matter then and don't matter now.  Sure, that was a really crappy time in my life.  But, it all worked out.  I overcame it, strong as ever, and now I am blissfully happy when I let myself be.  When I let myself be.  That's the key. 

I am allowed to be happy and free from my past, while still embracing my self and accepting it with my head held high.  I don't have to pretend it never happened to be happy.  I don't have to lock it in the vault and bury it, like I've been doing all these years, just to get by.  I just have to move on and be free and remember that the past does not define me, but it sure has made me stronger than I ever imagined I could be back then.

Here's a song that Jordan burned on a CD for me after I was attacked (I still have a really hard time calling it rape) and before he left on his mission.  I always had mixed feelings about this song, as it always made me cry but it also always gave me hope and made me realize that someone out there understands the pain.  I always pictured Jordan telling me these things since all I had was the CD since he was gone on a two-year mission. 

This was my therapy when I was all alone:

Third Eye Blind
Wounded

The guy who put his hands on you,
has got nothing to do with me.
And the bruises that you feel will heal
and I hope you come around,
cause we're missing you.

You used to speak so easy,
now you're afraid to talk to me.
It's like walking with the wounded.
Carrying that weight way too far,
the concrete pulled you down so hard
out there with the wounded...
...We're missing you.

Well I never claimed to understand
what happens after dark,
but my fingers catch the sparks
at the thought of touching you...
When you're wounded...

Lemme break it down till I force the issue,
we miss your face and you know I wish you
would come back down to the Delva Bar,
you tell 'em, "That's just my battle scar."
I wanna kiss you, and knock em down like we used to
You're a marigold
till you're walking down shaking that ass again,
then you walk on baby, you walk on, you walk on...
On and on...
You're an angel in the pit with her hands in the air

And we're missing you...

Now it's fall and your shoulders get tighter.
Nervous flicks on your lighter... boots,
your pissed off poets,
your women's groups.
And the friends with you, we should've known this fool.
Well, I guess we missed the mark.
Still, my fingers catch the sparks at the thought of them
touching you.
Now you're wounded...

Lemme break it down till I force the issue.
You never come around and you know we miss you.
Well no body took your pride away.
I said, "that's something people say."

Back down the bully to the back of the bus,
cause it's time for them to be scared of us,
till you're yelling how we're living cause you got the ball
and then you rock on, baby, rock on, you rock on
On and On.....

You're a summertime hottie with her socks in the air,
you're screaming, "I don't care, baby I don't care!  No."
You say you don't know, you say here we go now.
All I know is we're missing you.
You say you don't know, you say here we go now.
All I know is we're missing you.

Show up, show up wounded.
Show up, show up wounded.

Therapy Post

For the first time in a long, long time (I cannot tell you how long because it has been so long), I am sitting here alone.  Jordan left to work, Beckham got onto his school bus, and the younger kids are still soundly sleeping in their beds, which is unusual.  Usually I would fill up this moment with some speedy cleaning or hurry and put on some makeup before I am bombarded with kids.  Instead, I choose to sit.  Which is a very dangerous thing for me.  I hate to sit still.  I never really know why - I just hate it.  I think I figured out a little bit of the "why" to that this morning.  As soon as I am alone in my thoughts, my mind suddenly goes to places I do not want to visit. 

I was casually browsing Facebook posts for a few minutes as I drank my juice this morning and happened upon a post which led to a blog of an old neighborhood friend who is struggling with addiction.  I never had any idea she had struggled with any of this, so I curiously read on, and her post from yesterday tells her story.  I don't know why I read on, but I did, and now I am not only alone in my own thoughts, but reading something that has hit very close to home, and am in tears, shaking, trembling. I have run away from my dark places for so long, have filled up the minutes with every possible thought and activity to keep me from those dark places, and now, here I am, facing them head on.  I am paralyzed by what I face, and decided that I need to hurry and purge some things out on paper - or my computer - before I break down right at the beginning of my day when I need to put on my "mom" face and be strong and happy for my kids any minute now.

So, I'm just going to type and get this darkness out of me.  I have things hidden inside of me that have hurt me for years and years.  To make it worse, I have handled it in ways that have hurt me more and made me more ashamed.  To make it even worse, I grew up in a culture that shames you for any of those things and puts all blame on you, or so it seems.  To make it even WORSE, any time I have tried to deal with any of this, I get shamed by the one who I am putting all my trust in.  A few years ago, when Beckham was a baby, I finally went to see a therapist for the very first time.  It was long overdue.  I had been alone in my pain for way too long.  I thought I was going to her to save my marriage.  I quickly found out I was going to finally tell someone my story.  My therapist was very loving, and very accepting, and non-judgemental.  What made the experience even more enriching is that she did not grow up in the LDS faith so she was able to see my bad experiences from a greater viewpoint rather than just looking upon me as someone who had "fallen."  I had tried to talk to my mom, a bishop, a BYU school counselor, various friends, and my own husband about just little bits and pieces of some of these things that had happened to me in the past, but was always met with what I perceived as judgement and shame and afterward felt like everything was my fault.  For the first time ever, I divulged EVERYTHING and was told that the things that happened to me did not happen because I was "bad" or had done something wrong... they happened because I was good and people chose to take advantage of that.  She told me to not change myself because of them.  To not stop being nice because of them.  To not blame myself because of them.

To put it all out there, and stop sounding so cryptic (deep breath....), I was assaulted and attacked various times in college.  As in rape and attempted rape. I'm being blunt because any time I have ever tried to talk about it, I have always used vague terms and have played it down and acted like it happens to every college girl.  I want to clarify that each incident happened in different settings, all unexpectedly, all by different guys, all - might I add - who attended BYU.  Also, each time it happened, I had tried to safeguard myself in ways that any girl would.  I was not putting myself in harm's way or making stupid mistakes, as some people might assume, especially after hearing that it happened more than once.  Sure, I was naïve and trusting, but I wasn't stupid.  I valued my virtue and purity and dignity.  I was not out looking for trouble.

The first time it happened was during my first semester at BYU.  Summer term.  I had recently broken off my engagement to Josh and I was trying to figure things out with Jordan who I was still in love with but who was leaving on a mission within weeks.  I was a new college student living on my own for the first time, and one day I reluctantly accepted a "casual date" from a return missionary from my religion class who commented on my missing engagement ring.  I had turned him down a few times, and finally gave in one day.  But, I insisted that it be a double date, and that I would bring my friend, and that it be strictly friends going out to have fun, nothing more.  When he showed up he had some story about how his friend that we were supposed to double with couldn't make it. 

I was drugged on the date, without my knowledge until it was too late, and I started to feel funny and realized something was wrong.  By the time I realized something was terribly wrong, it was too late.  I was completely helpless.  I remember feeling like I wanted to fight and I wanted to cry, and I couldn't do either.  I was so weak and disoriented.  I don't remember much of what happened... either because of the drugs he slipped me or because I have blocked it out to protect myself.  I do remember that I kept wishing that Jordan would somehow come walking by and save me.  At some point that night I was dropped off on my doorstep, dumbfounded and confused.  I woke up the next morning in terrible pain, feeling very confused and bewildered and scared, and realized something very bad had happened on that date.  I was confused and tried to put all the pieces together while I was at work all day.  I was horrified at my realizations and called my mom, scared to death and in tears, wondering what I should do.  Should I go to the police?  Should I go to my teacher or school authorities?  I had no idea what to do.  My mom's response was a non-chalant, "Well, I guess you could wait a couple of weeks and take a pregnancy test."  I was so hurt and lost and afraid.  The response she gave made me feel like I was some whore that went out and willingly slept around and now she was telling me to just make sure I wasn't pregnant.  I decided to keep it to myself.  If my own mom came to the conclusion that it was my fault, what would everybody else think?!  I was still scared to death, though.  I stopped going to my classes, because I was afraid I would run into that guy.

I finally told Jordan what had happened (kind of... I told him I was drugged and "attacked" but I could not bring myself to admit it was rape)... I mostly told him because I was scared of this guy coming after me again AND because I figured I might as well tell Jordan everything since our relationship was at a crossroads anyway.  I didn't want to hide anything from him just for him to find out after his mission and decide he didn't want me.  Jordan was furious at the guy and called him and told him to stay the #@&% away from me.  He was the only one who stuck up for me of the few people who knew.  But, he still had his mission to go on and, as soon as he left, I felt so alone and abandoned.  Not by him, exactly.  Just the circumstances sucked.  At the time I needed him most, he had to leave.  I was alone.  I don't remember at what point I talked to my bishop during a temple recommend interview - days, weeks? - but I divulged to him what had happened and asked him what I should do.  His response was similar to my moms - He admonished me, told me that I probably put myself in that situation, and he added that I needed to repent and stop taking the sacrament.  I was being blamed for something I had ABSOLUTELY NO CONTROL over.  I was drugged and taken advantage of against my will.  I had not consented to this.  I had no idea what was happening to me.  And suddenly I was the bad girl, the whore.  Would someone respond the same way if I had told them that my house was robbed or my car was stolen? When an innocent by-stander is shot by a criminal robbing a bank, do people say, "well, you shouldn't have been standing in that bank... shame on you!" ???   I was very hurt.  I stopped going to church at a time that I needed Christ's love the most, other than just socially here and there with roommates and friends.  I felt abandoned and worthless.  I was completely alone in my pain with no where to turn.  

As I was coping silently with the rape incident, I was sexually harassed a few times during the course of my scuba instructor training, right about this same time.  A big lady named Susan, who was taking the training courses with me, started to see what was happening and she finally started to stand by me and ward off the three guys who were always saying and doing things to me.  There was one guy in particular that would say and do the nastiest things to me when no one was looking.  I would back away and tell him to stop and he would just do and say what he wanted.  He was so gross and nasty.  I hated him with a passion.  He would follow me out to my car after classes ended and threaten me and flirt with me simultaneously.  One night while I was carrying all of my scuba gear out to my car he grabbed me and picked me up and was feeling me up and laughing as I screamed and fought.  His friend, who had started out by laughing, immediately backed away with a serious look on his face and looked me in the eye.  I was crying and terrified and understandably upset.  He looked right at me, saw me pleading to be put down, and said to his friend, "Listen, man, this is wrong.  Let's go."  I felt so violated and helpless.  Like guys could just do whatever they wanted and I had no say in the matter.  I told my friend, Susan, about the incident in the parking lot.  I was scared of that guy.  I was scared of a repeat attack.  She turned him in to the owner of the scuba school and got him fired.  I was too scared to stick up for myself, and was always grateful for her standing by me.  Still, when it came time to testify and sign papers stating that he had indeed sexually harrassed me, on multiple occasions, I was terrified.  It was a year after it had happened, yet I was so scared that I immediately resigned from my job so that guy couldn't find me.

That autumn, I was abducted by an Italian guy who had told me he would be happy to tutor me in my Italian.  Looking back, I was really naïve to think that some guy just wanted to tutor me out of the kindness of his heart.  I don't really want to go into the details, but it was just another incident that made me feel weak and helpless when it came to men.

Another time, I was teaching scuba classes for the BYU students, and I was approached by a seemingly nice guy.  He said he needed a tutor for his accounting and math classes, and said he would pay me to be his tutor.  I had taught him in scuba over the course of a few weeks and he had always seemed very nice and decent.  He honestly fit the mold of the perfect return missionary/BYU student.  He was smart and attractive and I thought I knew him.  I saw him in class every week.  He was always nice to everyone.  Not creepy at all.  I was certainly apprehensive and untrusting of all guys at this point.  I wasn't being stupid when agreeing to tutor him.  I thought I was being nice and helpful, and he even told me his roommates would be around.  Bottom line:  I didn't have any indicators that I shouldn't do it.  I drove to his house one night for our tutor session and quickly realized that he had no intention of being tutored on math.  To make a long story short, he was aggressive with me and I finally was able to fight him off and got away from him before anything truly terrible happened.  I ran to my car, shaking and scared, and drove off crying, feeling oddly ashamed.  The worst part about it was that I was more ashamed that I would see him again.  That's how I felt with any of my attackers.  I was ashamed of myself and ashamed and scared to see them again in public.  Like I was the one who had done something wrong.  Or like maybe I led them on and it was my fault.  Or maybe I should have gone along with it and was embarrassed that I hadn't handled it with more class.  Something!  Anything other than the fact that I was attacked against my will!  I did end up seeing that guy again about a year later.  I saw him across the room at a party.  We just looked at each other.  I remember how hard it was to not run out of there away from him, as my insides churned and writhed and my face grew hot.  Instead, I just looked right in his face, head held high, as I casually chatted with friends, and my smile lied to everyone around me.  No body would have guessed what I was feeling at that moment.  His face, on the other hand, dropped the moment he saw me.  I hope he felt like an ass.

Around Christmastime, after the jeep rollover incident and the seemingly LONG two-month recovery from my injuries and broken bones (that's a whole other story), I went to a party one night with roommates and friends - just a bunch of college kids sitting around eating snacks and watching movies.  Nothing crazy.  I decided to leave early to get home and study, so I walked out to my car alone.  It was over by the King Henry apartments by BYU.  A group of guys that were standing in the street saw me and walked over to me.  They quickly formed a circle around me and one guy, who was clearly under some sort of drug influence, started to flirt with me and get uncomfortably close to me.  Then he started to kiss me.  I screamed and tried to push him back and his friends moved closer and the circle got tighter.  He got very aggressive.  I could see there was no way I was going to be able to fight off this guy plus all of his friends who were standing around us.  I didn't understand what was happening.  Not one of those guys could realize this was wrong?  No body could stand up for me?  I was making it quite clear that I did not want this guy touching me and kissing me.  Then, I was afraid... afraid of what would happen if I tried to get away - considering I was being surrounded by at least 7-8 guys.  I didn't know how far this guy would go.  All I knew is that they all seemed to be on drugs/alcohol and they didn't seem to mind that I didn't like having their friend up against me.  I kept swatting him away and telling him to get away from me.  They'd all laugh and he'd do it more.  He had me in his grip and I prayed silently that I would be able to get out of that predicament.  Not a moment later, and I mean almost instantly, a car with 4 guys drove up to the circle and a guy hollered out to me, "Hey!  Are you okay?!"  I yelled out as loud as I could, "NO!  These guys are attacking me!"  The four guys jumped out of the car and the circle immediately split and all the guys ran off in different directions.  I ran to my car, got in, and drove off without looking back, trembling and afraid.  But I will always be grateful to that car full of guys that stood up for me.

All of this happened during my first year at BYU.  Yeah.  Pretty astounding.  What a way to start out at BYU, the "good Mormon school."  I wanted to get away from there so badly.  I was trying to be a fun, carefree college girl and move forward with my life.  But I also desperately wanted to get away from it all.  I wanted to start over somewhere new.

Almost a whole year went by without any incidents.  I coped with the pain I felt inside by staying ridiculously busy.  I took a lot of classes, worked two jobs, went on a lot of superficial dates, visited my Grandma Leona and Auntie Norma a lot, offering to clean their houses or run their errands - anything to fill up the minutes of the day and have someone to talk to rather than be alone.  I never told them what had happened.  I just needed them.  I went running at night when everything was quiet and dark and I couldn't stop my thoughts.  Now I realize how idiotic it was for me to go running alone at night.  But, ironically, nothing ever happened to me during those solitary runs.  And, I guess I figured that nothing would happen to me that hadn't already happened.  I was apathetic and had no love for myself.  Sometimes a good guy friend would join me for protection, but mostly I ran alone.  All through Provo.  I ran and ran and ran, trying to numb myself and block out any pain or regret or shame or sadness.  After I had exhausted myself, I would go back to my dark apartment and shower and then just sit on the couch and study until I couldn't keep my eyes open any longer.  Then I would lay my head against the couch cushion and pretend that I was leaning up against Jordan's chest, that he would protect me and keep me safe.

One night I was sitting at one of my friend's apartments when an old friend of a friend called me for help.  He had always seemed like a decent guy.  Anyhow, this particular guy was supposed to be on a mission in Brazil, but told me some story about how he was on medical leave to get surgery and now he needed me to give him a ride to the place he was staying in Orem.  I agreed to help, having no idea what was ahead.  I picked him up and he asked if he could drive my car.  I naively agreed.  He started to drive up the canyon, to the right, instead of taking the fork to the the left that led to Orem.  I made him aware of his mistake and told him where he could turn around.  He kept driving.  It was the middle of the winter and he explained that he wanted to see the lake frozen over because he had never seen a frozen lake before, being from California and all.  We drove up the canyon in the dark, got down the boat ramp to the lake, and I showed him the frozen lake and asked if we could go.  We got back in the car and he immediately locked the doors.  He suddenly seemed menacing.  He started to put moves on me and act all smooth and suave, but the more I pulled away, the angrier he got.  It was like Mr. Hyde.  He was suddenly a different person, angry, mean, and very cruel.  He started to force himself against me, as I turned my head away from him and tried to push him away.  I fought and I screamed and he fought harder and got meaner.  I was afraid he would strangle me at one point.  He was hurting me and saying terrible things.  He was so angry at me for not wanting to kiss him.  He had seemingly lost all control and was just an angry attacker that I no longer recognized.  There was no body up in that canyon to save me.  I desperately looked down at my phone that had dropped on the floor and got an idea.  There was no service in the canyon, but he didn't know that.  He was from California.  I made a quick grab for my phone and dialed 911 even thought I knew very well it wouldn't go through.  I screamed out, "I'm calling the police unless you take me home right now!"  He pulled back, angry, defeated.  He punched the steering wheel.  I thought he was going to punch me.  He drove down the canyon very, very angry, wrecklessly and out of control.  My new fear was that I would die in a car crash.  It had only been a year earlier that I had been in that jeep rollover up that same canyon.  I gripped onto my seat, crying, praying to survive.  I never saw that dirt bag again.  I never dared mention to anyone what had happened.  I knew, somehow, it would be my fault.  But, I was wounded.  Very wounded.  That was sort of the final straw for me.  I drew away from everyone I knew.  I felt like I couldn't trust anybody.  And I never let anyone see the real me for quite a long time.  On the inside I was very injured.  On the outside, I was carefree and happy.

I continued to stay unbelievably busy.  I continued to fill every waking minute with productive endeavors.  I danced, I worked, I studied, I ran and ran late at night until my legs could no longer carry me, I helped my Grandma and Auntie, I went to the gym any time I found myself with a free minute, and I was always relieved when I would fall asleep instantly when my head hit the pillow.  I was so afraid to be alone with myself in my thoughts.  I had no self-respect.  I was terrified of all men and had no trust for anyone around me, yet I only felt self-worth if guys were asking me out on dates.  I had this idea that I wasn't worth anything to anyone except a pretty face to take out on a date, use and abuse, and cast aside.  I secretly kept wishing for some prince charming (Jordan, mostly) to come along and sweep me off my feet and take me away from Utah.  From all the bad memories.  I withdrew from all relationships of any kind.  I became very solitary.  I blamed myself for being attacked because I figured I must have welcomed the attacks somehow.  I considered myself worthless.  But I was able to hide everything inside.  All the darkness and loneliness and shame was hidden up inside.  I smiled on the outside.  I was a bubbly, carefree college girl on the outside. No body around me could see what was really going on, who I really was. But, on the inside, I was hurt and alone and afraid and feeling very sad and confused and worthless.  Some time went by.  I went through different phases of withdrawing from people.  I failed at school time and again.  I didn't feel worthy to succeed at anything.  I went from being a straight-A student with multiple scholarship offers to someone who could barely pass a class.

It wasn't until Jordan got home, that I experienced what true love felt like again, that I started to get my life back together.  I guess I had it in my head that he would get back and everything could go back to the way it was before he ever left.  That I could erase those couple of years somehow.  That he could whisk me away and all would be right in the world.  I immediately changed my phone number so no one from my past could contact me.  I moved away from Provo and in with a married friend who let me sleep on her couch.  I got a job up in Draper away from everyone I knew.  I stopped seeing old friends.  I was like someone in witness protection.  I changed everything but my name.  And I started to feel safe.  And the closer Jordan and I got, the more I gained hope for a happy future with a very good man.

After Jordan and I got married, I experienced some serious post-traumatic stress.  I had so many nightmares about my own husband trying to chase me down or kill me.  The poor guy felt so bad whenever I would tell him about my dreams.  He would respond with, "Hey!  Why am I always the bad guy in your dreams!"  In reality, he was always my knight in shining armor.  But, in my dreams, my psyche found a way to release all of the anxieties I had from my PTSD.  One night I woke up with his arm around me and thought he was one of my attackers, the guy who had attacked me in the canyon.  I jumped up out of bed, wide-eyed, and ran out my front door in my pajamas.  I hurried to my car and was fumbling in the dark for my non-existent keys, terrified.  It wasn't until I realized where I was - at my apartment that I lived in with my husband - that I came out of my frenzied state.  The latino guys across the street looked on in wonder as I walked back up to my apartment in my bare feet.  I think that's the first time I realized how much all of this affected me.  In college I had stayed too busy and had worn myself out too much to feel anything or think about anything.  Suddenly I was married and had a lot of alone time and it scared me to death. 

Shortly after we got married, my Auntie Norma died unexpectedly from an asthma attack at Christmastime.  There's nothing like tragedy to bring up old feelings.  I started to hit a new low.  I quit school, right after I had made it into the dance program at BYU that I had worked so hard for.  Jordan and I started to fight more over who knows what, but most likely having to do with all my emotional issues going on.  I had never had a chance to cope with the rape and the other assaults.

I think my job as a care tech/psych tech for women with eating disorders saved me.  For one, I worked with mostly women, so it became my "safe haven" away from all men, who I distrusted immensely.  (I had recently quit my waitressing job because my boss kept harassing me.)  For another, I had to keep it together to help them overcome their eating disorders and all of the other psychological issues that accompany an eating disorder.  I wanted so badly to be a good example and help those women through all of their problems.  I could reach out and help them immensely, because I understood where they were coming from.  I knew what it was like to feel unloved and abandoned.  I knew what it was like to be treated so wrong.  Many women there had eating disorders that were set off by them being molested or raped or assaulted.  They hated their bodies because of something that was done to them.  I had been battling those demons.  I had found strength in various ways to survive the depths of despair and darkness.  I felt so much love for the women there and wanted to do everything in my power to help them see the strength and power within themselves so they could rise above everything and lead a happy and healthy life.  I loved the moments when I could make a difference.  In a way, that job opened my heart after I had closed it for so long.  It gave me the opportunity to treat people the way I had always hoped to be treated.  I patiently listened, never judged, and then just loved them and encouraged them and helped direct them to the talents and strengths within themselves so they could find that self-empowerment.  So they could find that self-love. 

As soon as we could, we got out of Utah away from those bad memories and reminders of the past, and I was the happiest I had been in a long time.  I loved living out in Omaha/Iowa Western.  It was one of the happiest times in our marriage.  I started to feel FREE.  I never wanted to return to that ugly place in Utah County where everything had gone so wrong.

When we went back to Utah, things got bad again.  My Grandma Leona had passed away while we were living in Omaha - the one person in my life who I felt always loved me unconditionally was gone.  She was always my comfort and support through the hard times.  Suddenly, I felt like I had absolutely no one on this earth to love me unconditionally and accept me and support me.  Old memories got trudged up again.  Just seeing old places made me cringe.  I hated BYU.  I hated certain streets or canyons or neighborhoods, because I associated it with pain and heartache and the old me that didn't deserve to be treated with respect.  I hated everything about it.  I continued to work at Center for Change, trying my hardest to be strong and be an example for those women. 

I met a new crossroads.  A new LOW LOW.  Some bad things had been brought to my attention by a new friend of mine during this time and it was an especially difficult, heartbreaking time in my life.  I don't really want to go into details here, but I will say that I was sure that Jordan and I were not going to make it as a couple.  I immediately started looking for new hobbies to fill my time to avoid the negative thoughts that were going through my head.  I had to find some sort of SELF.  I was in high-alert mode and had to keep moving to be able to keep my head up high and a smile on my face, as I desperately just wanted to bury my head in the sand like an ostrich and cry my eyes out. 

I had to make some changes, so I started by quitting my job at Center for Change and taking a job as the new Dance Therapist at a private school for teenage girls with learning disabilities and psychological disorders.  It was a new adventure/challenge for me to conquer.  I was super excited.  Aside from teaching various dance classes, I also tutored them in their school subjects and worked as a mentor.  I found out I was expecting my first baby shortly after taking that job.  I was immersing myself in my work, my passions, and in my new role as a soon-to-be mother.  I became super-mom.  I carefully studied pregnancy and nutrition to ensure the healthiest pregnancy possible.  I filled my time with reading books and magazines about parenting.  I was going to be the world's best mom.  It became my new obsession.  That was going to be who I was.  I started to form a sense of identity based on that new role.  It was a start, a very good start, and it is what I built upon.  I have since learned that there has to me more to an identity than one role based on other people, but it was my gateway to a new life.  It helped that we moved across the country to Virginia right before Beckham was born.  I started a whole new life.  Away from my old life.  A fresh start.

When Beckham was born, I felt so much unconditional love for him.  I had a whole other person to look after now.  If something happened to me, who would take care of him?  I found this sense of empowerment as a mother.  I started to take self-defense classes: Krav Maga, Israeli Hisardut, and mixed martial arts classes.  I was NOT going to be a victim ever again.  I was NOT going to let someone treat me that way again.  I was better than that.  I was a mom.  I was a fighter.  For Beckham.  I learned how to take down a large perpetrator, how to get out of any situation of attack including how to turn someone's knife or gun away from me and against themself.  I learned how to handle myself and how to fight.  I got in awesome shape in the process, and felt good about myself.  This was my first step of therapy.  After the place I was taking classes shut down, I signed up for Jazzercise (because I realized the exercise was doing me a lot of good for managing stress) and Therapy (because I realized I had a lot to work through still).

I saw a therapist for the first and only time in my life.  I opened up and I shared my story.  I was validated and told it wasn't my fault and that I'm not "bad" or "worthless" or "deserved it" but that I deserve to be loved and treated accordingly.  My therapist told me that I was a sweet, kind person that bad people chose to take advantage of.  She made me promise her that I wouldn't let other people destroy the goodness inside of me. 

I still have to work through things periodically.  It's a process.  I still have to find healthy coping mechanisms when I find my heart feeling dark and heavy and the tears start rolling down my cheeks and I start to shake and tremble at the memory of those attacks.  I still fight to overcome the bad with the good.  The other night Jordan and I were watching something on TV late at night about post-traumatic stress for rape victims in the military.  We watched both men and women share their stories andshare how it has affected them.  A common theme was that they felt like they were shamed and blamed when they tried to turn in their attacker.  I mentioned to Jordan that a lot of victims feel that way - it gets turned around and all the blame gets placed on them and they can't heal.  I don't think Jordan realizes I was talking about myself.  He doesn't realize the extent to which the pain goes.  How I still need to heal.  That the nightmares still creep up where I am being attacked and feel helpless.  I feel worse  when I admit that I'm still dealing with it after all these years.

But, it helps to get it out there.  It helps to recognize the pain and put it out in the open, even if only on a private blog, to start the road to self-therapy.  I still fall back on filling every waking minute with activity.  I still try to overfill my days and become over-stressed with all the to-do's just so I don't revert back to any quiet moments that let me think about any skeletons in my closet.  The most fearful time for me is when I'm alone in front of the mirror getting ready for the day.  My mind wanders and I find myself in tears remembering things that I never want to remember.  I am working on that.  I am working on creating positive self-talk.  I am working on loving myself, even if no body else loves me.  That's the hardest part of this, I think.  When you're working through painful things of the past, you want to feel loved and accepted.  Instead, I feel like I have to keep it all a secret to feel accepted.  I still struggle with wondering if my parents will ever love and accept me, if I'll ever be enough.  I still struggle at times with trust issues and have a hard time letting people get close.  When I'm being really irrational, I struggle with my relationship with Jordan and wonder if he really loves me for who I am or if he'll leave me some day when our kids are out of the house and I'm just old and ugly.  Those are all things I'm working on.  Building my self-worth.  Building trust.  Finding happiness in unexpected places.  Facing fears.  Not letting the pain and darkness take over.  Finding my light.  My purpose.  My meaning.  My SELF.

So, there it is.  Not the usual blog post.  But, there it is.  Phew!